


Behold, Be Held

by 52714



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: F/M, First Time, Mutual Pining, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-26
Updated: 2020-05-26
Packaged: 2021-03-02 17:35:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,680
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24390670
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/52714/pseuds/52714
Summary: It was possible for Ser Aymeric to like something without understanding it. Like music, or the Warrior of Light.
Relationships: Aymeric de Borel/Warrior of Light
Comments: 1
Kudos: 27





	1. Part I

**Author's Note:**

> Happy birthday to the wonderful miss Ahnri! I adore you.

In the late afternoons, with the sky greyed over and the countless piles of reports haunting his desk, Ser Aymeric de Borel often wondered, idly, whether it had been the color of her hair.

By candlelight, it was very nearly the same blue as his sword, Naegling, and of the silk that accented his armor. The Lord Commander deemed himself a modest man, only rarely indulgent in luxuries. But, he'd spent an embarrassing amount of Borel gil on those dyes, so troublesome had it been to get the blue just right. To think, that a small fortune had been required to emulate a color that grew so freely, so naturally from her body. He could only shake his head at the thought.

Aymeric's sociological knowledge of the Au Ra was admittedly lacking, so the origin of the color remained a mystery to him. He could not be certain whether it was rare or common among her people. In truth, he felt that it hardly mattered.

Blue was an easy color, favored by most Ishgardians. That’s what it meant to be surrounded by ancient, grey stones and a heavy sea of grey clouds. Even the very snowfall seemed ashen. Grayness and coldness were the near-eternal stage upon which the Highlands sat.

So on those fine, clear days that sunlight _did_ grace them, it was always beneath a vault of pale azure. To see the sky meant a fragile warmth: the forums full to bursting with citizenry, excited shouts and gibs of children climbing atop the statue of Saint Reinette. Blue, the color that permeated those uncommonly happy days.

So too was it, that the rims of her eyes were a sort of cerulean, almost neon-like. Deeper, and of a more profound brightness than his own.

He recalled the first time he had met her, in Coerthas. Aymeric had often met men less impressive than their deeds, and as such, had grown accustomed to tempering his expectations. With the Warrior of Light, it was not so.

He could tell she was possessant of a sort of aura, a kind of consecrated air that he could not describe but had felt before: inside of a church, or upon earth with hallowed significance. Whatever her vitality of animation, it seemed incapable of expiration. Aymeric found himself enthralled, but he did not know why.

Over the nights that followed, in those inconsequential half-moments between sleep and awakeness, his mind’s eye was sodden with visions of her. Like the ghost of a bard’s tune stuck in one’s head, unwavering though you wish for it to stop.

It was in the way she moved.

When he’d regarded her for the first time, he couldn’t quite understand it. To look at her alone, he realized, you wouldn’t see it. But when he recalled how she'd leaned in toward the little white-haired Elezen, small hand rising up to gently pat the textured cloth of his shoulder, it struck him.

When she moved, her body never went _toward_ anything. Instead, something gently melded the air and dust and presence of the earth around her, like the fabric of Eorzea itself was shifting under her intensity. Her movement was unmistakable, yes, but the impression was also that she remained in one place.

Hers was a reverent magnetism. Something he could neither put into words, nor out of his mind.

Ahnri.

* * *

What does it say about a man who is only capable of speaking politically?

The first impression that most have of Ser Aymeric is that of bureaucracy. And, that perhaps he was rather handsome.

For the second reason, Ahnri found it pleasing to subject him to her intense scrutiny. She noted his straight spine, the highness with which held his head, the proper clasp of his long fingers. It was the sort of etiquette she’d grown unaccustomed to seeing this far North.

His motions were easy and well-practiced, evocative of a highborn society man. There was no speech he hadn’t given before, voice calm and clear, though not lacking for emotion. She found it soothing on the ears, selfishly listening to his words without comprehension.

They were speaking of Ishgard's status with the Eorzean alliance, of their refusal to rejoin.

Within a few minutes of the discussion's beginning, Aymeric shifted slightly, pale eyes flicking over to regard her even as Alphinaud spoke. She wondered, vaguely, whether the good Lord Commander was even listening. Sometimes the young scion _did_ tend to carry on.

Ahnri found herself wholly unaffected by his gaze, heart too ambivalent to muster even the slightest palpitation. Aymeric was hardly the first handsome man to look upon her, and—Twelve willing—he would not be the last.

Were she twice as daring, she would have winked. Not even meaning anything by it, just to see if she could prompt a reaction. Would he stiffen? Or stammer his next words? Perhaps a little blush would creep over his high cheekbones?

Probably none of those things, she decided. A man that handsome could only have endured his fair share of winking.

All in due time. She could be patient, for a virtue such as his.


	2. Part II

It was always a heady thing, to walk into Aymeric's office. The way that his face twisted in repressed ecstasy whenever he saw her, well, she supposed it would hit like a tonic upon any woman's ego.

Ahnri had many times assured herself that Aymeric, in relation to her, was simply another of the hundreds of identically gallant soldiers she had met all across Eorzia. She hadn't given any of them a sparing thought, and he was to be no different.

But, in the late evenings, all tucked up with a book, she frequently found herself in the discouraging state of reading, but not following. As her eyes dutifully passed over the neat, printed text, her treacherous imagination could only seem to recall the encounters that had taken place between them. And, more dangerously, would sometimes drift towards certain other things, things that had not yet come to pass.

This frustrated her greatly, for books were her life's haven. Her pursuit of knowledge was always undaunted, incapable of disturbance, no matter the movings of the World. Perhaps worst of all, it was neither Nidhogg's return nor Ishgard's beleaguered fate that distracted her so.

The shameful catalyst of her wandering mind, was none other than the Lord Commander.

And now, at the first moment of seeing him again, she felt only joy. As she and Alphinaud strode toward him, the wellspring of excitement in her breast was tempered only by the circumstances of their visit.

Ever courteous, he came to stand in front of the large, official desk. Lucia faithfully at his side, pale shadow that she was. Grey light flooded through the tall, gothic windowpanes behind them, which granted the office a uniquely Ishgardian dourness.

They spoke in quiet, fervent tones of Nidhogg, and his brood-brother Hraesvelgr. Ishgard was in sore need of an ally.

Aymeric would not send her and Alphinaud alone, as was his oath, instead insisting that they escort him to Sohm Al. In weather most fair, the Dravanian Forelands were nearly an eleven-hour journey, and so the Lord Commander assured them he could procure a suitable, chocobo-drawn carriage.

Naturally, Alphinaud had counseled alternative, quicker means, but no airship could be hired in such short order. Flight was always a risk anyway, what with the brutal storms that might crop up at a moment's notice. It was better that they travel together, Aymeric insisted, so that they might discuss and debate, to better provide a united front in Sohm Al.

All the while he discussed arrangements with Alphinaud, his wintery gaze would occasionally fix upon hers. And when all had been agreed upon and squared away, Aymeric turned respectfully to Lucia.

“The city is yours, First Commander,” he said, pausing briefly to acknowledge her salute.

A part of Ahnri knew, then, as clearly as if he had told her, that such arrangements had been suggested in order to get close to her. Aymeric desired to travel with her, because he wanted to be where she was. Him choosing to leave Lucia behind had sealed her understanding. Little could be done about Alphinaud's presence, but it was enough.

The future was so uncertain, and there was no telling what price Hraesvelgr might ask of Aymeric in exchange for his aid. It was doubtless that he would pay it, even if his own life was forfeit. Such was the strength of his conviction. The more she thought of it, the more a distraught sense of loss crept into her breast.

As their journey would be long, it was recommended that they all change into clothes more suitable. They briefly parted ways with Aymeric to pack, promising to reconvene in an hour.

Ahnri discovered, afterward, that the Lord Commander's concept of a _carriage_ was woefully aristocratic, for it was not a simple chariot that greeted her at the Holy Stables. Instead, a proper wheelhouse awaited them, exterior engraved ornately enough to be pleasing to the eye, but not so garish that it might encourage highway banditry. Not that fighting off rouges wouldn't prove to be entertaining.

The black, spoked wheels of the carriage were of impressive circumference, in order to spare the hull from those fatal, Northern snowbanks. This meant, naturally, that Ahnri was too short to enter without trouble. She watched, fascinated, as their coachman, an Elezen man of curled hair and medium-build, opened the door for her. He unfolded a little set of velvet stairs so that she might climb inside.

Aymeric rushed forward to offer her an ungloved hand. He had traded his usual armor for a belted blue tunic, cuffs and neckline embellished with lace; where pauldrons usually crested his shoulders, now there lay a fine, fur traveler's coat.

Though his chivalry was endearing to her, she did not need his help, instead flicking the tip of her tail playfully along his fingers as she ascended. As she alighted the three steps, her eyes widened.

The wheelhouse, though unassuming from the outside, was quite a feat of luxury from within. The inside was furnished with two cushioned benches, facing toward one another. Everything, including the walls and ceiling, was upholstered with deep, grey taffeta. Little buttons were affixed to the fabric in symmetrical, diamond-like patterns, leaving a tufted sort of appearance.

Ahnri sat in the rear quarter, so that she would not be facing backwards when they moved. It was vexing for her to read in such a state, and she could simply not do without for such a journey. She peered down, pleased at the dark carpeting beneath her boots. Then, she wrapped her tail round her hips, tucking it politely into her lap.

Alphinaud—thank the Twelve—sat across from her. Briefly, he took stock of their surroundings before fixing her with an even stare. Both of them had grown accustomed to the luxury of House Fortemps, so this was a welcome development.

As Aymeric climbed inside, the entire wheelhouse shifted slightly beneath his impressive weight. Without hesitation he sat beside Ahnri, prompting a tiny smile to appear upon Alphinaud's lips. The scion said nothing, instead turning his gaze innocently toward the frosted pane of the window.

Of course he knew. He always had been a perceptive little bastard, Ahnri thought glumly.

The coachmen cracked his whip upon the dark wings of the draft chocobos, and the carriage lurched westward.

It was going to be a long eleven hours.

* * *

There comes a point in every conversation, even the most well-meaning ones, where it naturally succumbs to entropy, and dies.

The three of them carried on easily for a bit, but Aymeric, like a beggar loath to part with his meager belongings, stubbornly carried their little tête-à-tête far beyond its intended lifespan. Would that he could, he seemed eager to try and fill each hour of their journey with talk. They spoke at length of politics, and then their various travels abroad. And, when true desperation struck, they discussed the latest fashions. Things eventually grew so uncomfortable that Ahnri reached for a book.

Henceforth, all conversation was banished. Alphinaud, large seat to himself, gleefully reclined to take a nap. Aymeric looked out the window. The steady sound of carriage wheels turning through snow proved a pleasing, if not dull, ambiance.

As Ahnri expected, she was not making much progress in her book. Whatever irritating effect Aymeric had upon her concentration, it appeared to be magnified tenfold in his presence. Entire, shameful minutes would go by between each page's turn, and she hoped he didn't think her a slow reader.

Perhaps an hour had passed in their travels, yet it was not quite cold inside the compartment. In fact, the insulation proved to be of highest quality, as it was actually getting a bit warm. Ahnri quietly shed her long coat, revealing the bare shoulders of her high-collared dress.

She'd always liked this dress. She liked the deep, wine-colored leather that cinched her waist and the dark, ruffled skirts that rested only slightly below. What was more, she liked that Aymeric had suddenly found the sweeping vistas of the Western Highlands profoundly uninteresting.

“Might you open the window?” she inquired. “I could do with some fresh air.”

Aymeric took stock of his companion. Her shapely legs were booted to the mid-thigh, skin above covered only by a pair of fishnet stockings. Similarly, the pale flesh of her shoulders lay exposed. As he looked at her, he could feel his nerves beginning to tighten like twine across a weaver's loom.

“I don't mean to presume, Ahnri, but would you not be cold?” He made a vague gesture toward her outfit.

Had any other man made the same remark, she would have snapped at them. But she knew Aymeric's words came only from a place of virtuous concern, and she could not bring herself to feel annoyance toward him.

“You needn't worry for me,” she said, smiling. Aymeric nodded and cracked the windowpane ever so slightly, allowing a draft of vividly cold air to leak inside.

“Permit me, but might I ask you something?” Aymeric began, carefully. It was difficult to look upon her face when he spoke, parallel as their bodies were. He reclined slightly, forfeiting his proper posture so that he might see her.

“Mm,” she hummed.

“I can easily recall you striding towards the great wyrm at the Steps of Faith. You wore this same attire, did you not?”

Ahnri thought for a moment, round face contorting prettily with concentration. It had been several weeks hence, and she struggled to recall.

“In truth, I cannot remember,” she admitted. “Possibly, though.”

“Ahnri, with profound respect.” Aymeric paused to grasp for the appropriate phrasing. “How is it that you are able to fight in such garments?” He recoiled at her blank look of disappointment, feeling his stomach drop. “They appear rather flimsy,” he amended lamely.

“A duo of master craftsmen call my Free Company their providence,” Ahnri said. “They proudly created this armor for me, with materials of the highest quality.” She smiled in a precarious manner, crossing her legs until the flesh of her thigh strained sinfully against the diamond-pattern of her stockings. “Perhaps you would like to feel their fine skill for yourself?”

Her invitation frightened Aymeric, but also filled him with joy. It was unrighteous of him to even consider it, that much he knew. But, he contended, there could be no shame in assessing another warrior's armor.

Nervously, he glanced over to where Alphinaud rested, motionless atop the taffeta. The Elezen's small eyes were sealed shut, arms crossed over his chest in conspicuous defense as he slept. Aymeric felt emboldened by the tender rise and fall of his breast.

He was thirty-two, yet he realized with an exhilarating clarity that these were his first unchaperoned moments with a highborn woman. Marriage was the foundation of Ishgardian life, and Lords did not let their eligible sons and daughters cavort unattended.

But, no matter how Aymeric could attempt to justify it, he knew this was highly improper conduct. It was plainly what his spirit desired, but his reason dreaded. He felt the momentum of his heart increase threefold.

With sincere awkwardness, he gently rested a hand upon her upper thigh. He could feel where the edge of dark leather gave way to skin, so white and warm beneath his fingers. Carefully, he moved along the material of the stockings; true to her word, the black mesh seemed stronger than it appeared.

Aymeric's hand came to rest along the ruffled edge of her skirts, much higher than he'd intended. It suddenly occurred to him that he was quite breathless, and also that his face felt very hot.

Ahnri was watching this disaster unfold with beleaguered amusement. She could never recall seeing a man come undone from the mere touch of her thigh—wait, yes she could. Well, it was enjoyable regardless.

“Try and rip it,” she murmured.

“ _What?_ ”

She hushed him in reply, motioning with her head towards Alphinaud.

Aymeric peered back down toward her legs. How lovely was it, to see his own hand across her thigh. He marveled at how much smaller than him she was, though he knew better than to underestimate her strength.

Whenever he thought back to the women in his life, Lucia was always the base upon which he compared them. He respected her, but he was not quite attracted to her. She possessed a more unfeminine appearance, but it was more than just how she looked.

Aymeric's aristocratic insight, encouraged from the very first moments of his Borel upbringing, allowed him to tell with a single glance that Ahnri Rhika belonged to the best sort of society. And, like a great society woman, she could make herself feel at home anywhere.

Lucia, though undoubtably more devoted to Ishgard and its people, would occasionally give the impression that her love was compensation. Because she did not belong, her movements lacked the vitality of confidence that Ahnri's had. She was insecure, unsure. Lucia was firm in her motions and words, yet not quite graceful. He could not love her, this much he knew.

Haltingly, Aymeric hooked a finger through the dark netting of Ahnri's tights. He realized that the material had a curious, wire-like quality to it, perhaps a sort of tempered mythril. He tugged at it mildly, unsurprised when it remained intact.

“Harder, Aymeric.”

He knew full well that his face had reddened, for he'd taken an unusual pleasure in hearing those words. A second finger slid through to join the first, and he made another attempt, slightly more forceful than the last. The material pulled from her leg, and his fingers went white from the pressure of it, but the textile did not break.

Frustrated, he hooked a third finger inside, yanking her leg with such ferocity that it flew outwards. The movement was so sudden, so unexpected, that Ahnri could not prevent her heel from digging squarely into Alphinaud's shin. The scion jolted with animated awakeness, blue eyes opening in alarm.

Aymeric felt suddenly enlivened by the adrenaline that flooded his entire being. He deliberately tried to still the excess energy within himself, the shameful thrill of being caught at the forefront of his mind. His base, warrior's instinct told him to fight, or flee. But, he found himself in the curious position of having nowhere to go, and no enemy with which to clash.

Without direction, Aymeric found that his body simply froze, three fingers still disgracefully tangled along Ahnri's leg. His face felt winded with guilt as Alphinaud regarded them, and the Lord Commander willed Halone to strike him down then and there. He could not see Ahnri's face, but he knew her eyes would be wild and unreadable.

There could be no explanation. For all his political experience, he could not think of any words that existed, in any language, that could make this right. Shamefully, he gently set down Ahnri's leg and withdrew his hand, turning his gaze toward the window. Worst of all, her stockings were still intact.

Beside him, the two scions were having a wordless argument. From the corner of his eye, he could see Alphinaud make a disappointed expression that had only one meaning:

_Really, Ahnri?_

* * *

The next four hours, and likely the rest of their travel, would pass in silence.

The late afternoon sun, as usual, found itself entombed by the overcast sky. A light bout of snow was falling; the flakes danced, shroud-like, about the carriage. The visibility entreated him to an uninteresting view, and the Lord Commander could feel his gaze wandering back inside. Mercifully, both of his companions appeared to be asleep.

A sort of tempered silence fell about them; the repetitive creaking of the carriage wheels was calming, in its own way. Though it was quiet, Aymeric did not feel alone. Rather, he felt at peace.

An aristocratic loneliness had plagued much of his youth. Similar to how one might attend a garden party, become surrounded by people you do not know, and then feel alone. But this effect is magnified, naturally, when the strangers are under your family's employ. A maid or retainer could exist in the same room, yet solitude would overwhelm him.

Watching the little rise and fall of Alphinaud’s chest calmed him. His serene, restful breathing delivered a moment of clarity unto Aymeric. Though he could not quite tell the scion’s age, his appearance reflected that of a teenager's. How unfortunate, to see one so young mixed up in all of this.

The carriage ran over a bump then, jostling their bodies suddenly. If either one of them had awoken, neither showed any evidence. In the commotion, Ahnri had slumped against him; the side of her face balanced splendidly against his flank. All grew quiet again, and he did not feel alone.

And there, with the insistent, warm press of Ahnri’s head upon him, Aymeric wondered if this was what it felt like, to have a family.


End file.
